Of The Dangers of Partridges and Leaping Lords
by Cosmia
Summary: The twelve days of Christmas, Merlin stylie. In which Gwen is loud, Morgana is wistful, Merlin wants some love and Gaius wants to get rat-arsed. It’s the Christmas Special you all want to see. Rated for language and later ArthurMerlin lovin'.
1. Chapter 1

**Of The Dangers of Partridges and Leaping Lords. **

The twelve days of Christmas, Merlin stylie. In which Gwen is loud, Morgana is wistful, Merlin wants some love and Gaius wants to get rat-arsed. It's the Christmas Special you all want to see.

I don't own Merlin. I wish I did. I'm not Shakespeare either. I also certainly don't own all the song lyrics I have pinched and pushed in to make it more enjoyable. I find it quite nice to pick up on the little things in the fics. If you spot one, you get a glass of seasonal mulled wine or a glass of apple juice if you're driving or a scrooge.  
It's also crazily AU, but it's Christmas so we don't mind.

Rated R really for my skills at cussing like a sailor and some MerlinArthur action later on.

25th December.  
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,  
A partridge in a pear tree.

_He is very well-favoured and he speaks very __shrewishly__; one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.  
_**Twelfth Night, Act I, Scene ****V****.**

Christmas morning dawns crisp and cold, like something out of a Christmas card. The courtyards are empty and all of Camelot is either asleep, with the exception of Morgana, who never sleeps. She sits and watches as down below in the town, an offical looking cart starts to make its way up to the castle. But there's no official business in Camelot today, she thinks. What is this? The cart reaches the gates, the driver converses with the one guard in Camelot unlucky enough to be on duty today, and trots into the courtyard. The driver descends, lifts something off the cart and leaves it in the middle of the courtyard.  
It could be a weapon, forged by some evil power of doom.  
It could be an assassin, train in the art of disguising himself as a sack.  
Or, as Morgana realises, a tree. A tree with a bird in it.  
"You're a sweet little thing," she cooes, reaching to stroke its speckled brown neck.

Something you must know about know about partridges. They're vicious buggers if you've kept them cooped up under a sack for three days.

"You swine," she squeals, knocking the bird in her attempt to get her hand away. It makes a break for freedom, and she watches as it disappears into one of the castle's many conveniently open door. "What sort of a bastard sends angry birds?" she grumbles, fumbling with the note she finds on one side of the tree's pot. "Shit."

Arthur was looking forward to a morning of peace and warmth in bed. He was looking forward to doing bugger all for once. He was really looking forward to being able, for once, to drink tea in bed. He was therefore not best pleased when Morgana burst through the doors to his room, shouting that she's just caused a major diplomatic incident.  
"I've just started a war with Mercia!"  
"Are you sure?" he yawns.  
"Arthur!"  
"Yes?"  
"There was a bird in a tree and I've lost it."  
"So? Find it."  
"I don't know where it is and it was from the King of Mercia and if we don't get it back, there may be a war."  
There are words that Arthur doesn't like in that sentence, but one, 'we,' makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable.  
"There is no we. You lost something, you find it." He rolls over in preparation to go back to sleep but Morgana's had more than her fair share of dealing with uncooperative males. With a flourish she tugs away the prince's covers.  
"Arthur! Up!"  
"Cold!"  
"Put some clothes on then!"  
Arthur remembers his modesty and scrambles to cover himself with a pillow despite the fact Morgana seems unphased by his nudity.  
"You're meant to be a lady!"  
"And you're meant to be gallant. Get up and help me."  
Arthur curses his chivalrous nature. If he's going to be up helping damsels in distress, he's bloody not doing it on his own. For this reason, Merlin finds himself answering the door to Gaius' rooms in his dressing gown, to find an aggravated royal on the doorstep.  
"Get dressed," Arthur says sharply. "We're on a mission."  
"I don't want to go on a mission," Merlin wails to the walls as he searches for something to wear. "I want to stay in bed."  
"I'd happily join you," the prince grumbles. The warlock picks up on that blatant innuendo and blushs while his masters angrily consumes porridge.  
"What are we looking for?"  
"A partridge. Morgana went and bloody lost one this morning and apparently if we don't get it back, there's going to be a war."  
"We'll need a cage then."  
Therefore, in the interests of disturbing yet more peoples' Christmas morning, Morgana, Arthur and Merlin make their way into the lower town.  
"Open up!" Arthur declares, banging on the door of a forge.  
"Not for love nor money."  
"Gwen, please," Morgana says.  
"Do you have a goose?" the maid asks through the closed door.  
"No."  
"Firelighters?"  
"No."  
"I can get you more mulled wine than you can possibly drink," Arthur offers. The door opens.  
"You better mean that."  
"What happened to 'milord' and 'milady?'" he asks, affronted.  
"Twelve days of Christmas? When every man in the land is free to talk as he wishes?"  
"No wonder Uther's escaped," the prince sighs.  
"Come in, come in," Gwen says. "Have you eaten? I've got bacon."  
It's quite a sight. Twp royal and a maid feasting on fried pig sandwiches as a warlock stands and looks slightly unwell.  
"We need a cage," Gwen says with her mouth full, "and breadcrumbs."  
"Breadcrumbs?"  
"Don't you know anything about birds?" she chuckles.

It becomes quite clear, as the morning drifts on, that Gwen knows just as little about birds.  
"I'm quite sure this worked the last time I had to do this," she assures Merlin as they sit with their legs dangling over the battlements.  
"When was the last time you did this?"  
"I've caught chickens," she offers. "But that doesn't really count, does it?" She toes off her shoe and dangles it on the end of her foot, into space.  
"Be careful," Merlin warns. "You don't know-" What he wants to explain is the dangers of having fair maidens creeping up behind you and making you jump. However, Morgana puts this in less words for him.  
"Surprise!"  
"Shit! My shoe!" The three of them watch as it falls through the air, down, down and down some more onto the cobbled streets of Camelot.  
"Ooh, sorry," Morgana starts, rushing to peer over the side of the castle.  
"Watch it up there!" a man shouts. "You could have killed me."  
"Sorry!" she shouts down.  
"Wait," Gwen says. "What's he holding?"  
The three of them glance down to see the man hobble away with a stick under one arms, and a bird under the other.  
"That's my bloody partridge!" Morgana declares, hitching up her skirts and breaking into a run. Merlin slides out of his position in the crenulations and follows her.  
"Oh, yes, everyone forget about Guinevere," Gwen grumbles. "She can handle herself." She throws herself out backwards, scrambles to her feet and begins to hop down to the lower town. "I hate royals."  
"That could get you locked up," a regal voice behind her tells her.  
"You wouldn't do that, R'arthur," she says. "You like me too much."  
"Don't think that," he says smiling. "Think yourself disposable."  
"Give us a piggyback?" she asks.  
"Not on your arse. Hop."  
"You're a bastard, Pendragon."  
"I'm not. I assure you, my parents were married when I was conceived."

"Excuse me," Morgana says as she catches up with the hobbling man.  
"You!"  
"Yes, I do apologise for that. Now-"  
"You could have killed me!"  
"I know, I know. Please-"  
"You've got to learn some manners."  
"Sorry," Merlin says politely, appearing just behind her, "but you've got her bird."  
"This en't her bird," he snaps. "This is my dinner."  
"Please," Morgana says. "We've got to get this back. Please!"  
"If you give us that bird," Merlin says, "we'll get you a better bird. A bigger bird. A hundred better birds."  
"Pah," the man snorts. "Who do you think you are, Prince Arthur?" The two of them turn, as if waiting for their prince to make his spectacular entrance.  
"I'm the king's ward," Morgana declares, playing her trump card.  
"Do royals regularly go around taking people out with shoes?"  
"Oh, leave the shoe out of this! We need that partridge!"  
"You en't getting this bird."  
"Excuse me, but you seem to have the Lady's partridge."  
"Give him the pissing bird!" Semi-shoeless Gwen and Prince Arthur arrive on the scene almost together. "What did you do with the slipper? It's the only one I've got." Grumbling, the man hands over the partridge and one of Gwen's shoes. "Oh, it's crap it in. I do not sodding believe this."  
"Thank you," Morgana says, handing the bird to Merlin, who looks thoughrally baffled as to what he's supposed to do with it.  
"Oi," the man reminds her. "You said I'd get birds."  
"And I'd like a new shoe."  
And so it comes to pass that at the Christmas feast, Earnest McDougal, pig herd and general miscreant, gets to sit beside the beautiful king's ward, who he impresses with his descriptions of pig mating rituals, and to eat as much goose as he can, much to the envy of most of the court. When Uther asks what Earnest is there for, his son tells him he helped avert a war with Mercia. Uther is thoughrally impressed. Gwen gets a new pair of shoes.  
It is, Morgana thinks, an execellant start to the season of Christmas.

* * *

I do hope you enjoyed. This is lots of fun to write.  
With love from Cosmia and Augustus (_le chat indifférent_), although I'm not sure Augustus knows how to love anything other than sardines.


	2. Chapter 2

Profuse apologise for my crappy French in the following chapter. If it were German, I could be so much more accurate. However, romantic German, though lovely, is an acquired taste.  
Onwards!

26th December.  
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,  
Two turtle doves.

_I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing and bear-baiting. O! had I but followed the arts!  
_**Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene 3.**

"Tell me," Merlin says as he enters Arthur's bedroom to see Gwen standing on a table waving a dove cot at the prince. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"  
"No, no," she says cheerfully. "Have a look at this."  
"It looks like a small ice house to me."  
"It's a dove cot, and it came this morning."  
"On its own?"  
"No, you cretin, with doves."  
"Are the good people of Mercia under the impression that there's been a sudden drop in the population of Camelot, and that there's a food shortage because of it?" Merlin asks.  
"What, and so they're trying to solve it by sending enough food everyday to feed a royal with a mind appetite? No, we suspect something else is up." She nods to Arthur, who just shrugs.  
"It seems the female population of Camelot is plotting to deprive me of a lie-in," he says, shrugging.  
"And to steal all of my days off," Merlin adds.  
"This could be serious," Gwen says. "I think someone might be trying to court Morgana!"  
"With doves?"  
"Where's your sense of romance," she says. "When does Uther get back?"  
"New Year's day," Arthur says, stretching. "Five days time."  
"What if they try something before then?" Gwen asks.  
"Then I suggest you find a way of defending your mistress from hoards of angry birds."  
"This isn't a joke, princey," she says, throwing dove straw at him. "We might need to protect her."  
Arthur shrugs and wiggles his shoulders, as if the idea of some lord trying to abduct his step-sister is really none of his business.  
"It's Uther business. He's king."  
"Fuck Uther!"  
"Gwen," Arthur says. "He's king."  
"My arse," she grunts, throwing herself off the table and catching herself on the edge of Arthur's bed.  
"You should have been a dancer Guinevere," he tells her. "Now, leave so I can get dressed. Merlin, get me clothes."  
"I've seen you naked before," she tells him flatly.  
"Yes, and it's not something I want to happen again."

The two turtle doves and the partridge, now christened Vincent, Ulysses and Emiliana, have made themselves at home in Morgana's wardrobe, much to her maid's disapproval.  
"I think they're terribly sweet," Morgana declares.  
"You won't think that when they've crapped all over your clothes."  
"Clothes can be washed." Bloody royals and their bloody romantic notions, Gwen thinks. "Speaking of clothes, are they the same ones you were wearing yesterday?"  
"Maybe." Morgana looks faintly disapproving. "Blame Gregs. It was his idea. How was I to know he'd put something funny in that... blancmange."  
"Blancmange?"  
"I didn't drink anything," the maid promises  
"Milady!" There's a shout from outside. "It's the tree!"

"We are so fucked."  
Gwen's prognosis of events is, though crude, entirely accurate. The Christmas tree, the high point of the Great Hall's decorations, has shed almost all of its needles, leaving in the place of a grand pine tree, a spindly, bald thing.  
"We could cleverly arrange decorations to hide it," Morgana says, thinking strategically.  
"We'd still be fucked."  
The guards look distinctly thrown by this maid's cussing.  
"Ah, Lady Morgana, do you want us to put her in the stocks?" he says, clasping Gwen's shoulder and making to drag her away  
"Oh Jesus, what've you done Gwen?" she says, looking faintly bemused.  
"I haven't done anything."  
"For using inappropriate language in front of milady," the guard offers.  
"Now, Jeffory," Morgana starts.  
"I can get you a turkey."  
"Gwen," she says sharply. "Swearing in front of royals is acceptable. Bribing their guards is rather frowned upon though."  
"This isn't a bribe," her maid says earnestly. "It's an understanding we have, isn't it Jeffers?"  
"Exactly milady."  
Getting the feeling she is being successfully duped by a guard and her maidservant, Morgana turns her attention back to the tree.  
"I have a plan," Gwen declares. "What tell Uther, when he gets back, is that while we were out one day, doing totally honourable things in the name of helping Camelot, a herd of ravaging goats burst into the castle and tried to devour the tree. Which they did, in part but that," she grins, "and this is my masterpiece, Arthur leapt in and single handedly slaughtered them all."  
"What happens when Uther wants to see the goats?"  
"We say we ate them."  
"And what happens," Morgana says drily, "when, half a second later, Uther realises that it's all bullshit."  
"Oh, bloody hell," Gwen sighs. "I'll get you some sodding tinsel."

Two words occur to Merlin as he enters the hall, in order that he might help with preparations for dinner.  
One is 'wow.'  
The other is 'shiny.'  
"One a scale of one to eleven," Arthur says, crossing over to speak to him. "How inconspicuous would you rate that tree?"  
"Thirteen. But I like sparkily."  
"The man's got taste," Gwen declares, jostling past them.  
"Wait, good maid of Camelot," the prince declares, eyeing up her basket. "Are those what I think they are?"  
"They might be." She draws out a fruit from her basket and hold it up like it is some sort of holy chalice. "These are white peaches, grown on the slopes of the Obehol volcanoes. Now, you could wait until tonight, when your great desire for this fruit can be quenched with great relish." He plucks the peach out of her hand and attempts to fit as much of the fruit in his mouth as he possibly can. What could be a sensuous moment descends into a terrifying medley of squished fruit. "Or, you could just be gluttonous and scoff the whole thing now."  
Arthur's response rather constitutes muffled squelches, from what Merlin can hear.  
"Um, Arthur," Merlin says cautiously. "You're dribbling."  
"Wfdgjfhst."  
"What?"  
"I said, where?"  
"All over your face," the warlock says. It's quite an accurate description.  
"Well," he shrugs. "You're a servant. Wipe it off."  
"I don't have a napkin!"  
"You've got a scarf."  
Merlin doesn't want to smear peach juice all over a perfectly good scarf but that chin and that face are quite hard to refuse and so he finds himself gently wiping away fruit juice from the lips of that lovely prince.  
"You know, there's poison in the heart of those stones."  
"No there's not. That's just a rumour drempt up by angry servants."  
"Merls, I request your presence in the kitchen," Gwen sings, pulling the lad across the room into a staircase. "Explain, if you please, the smearing."  
"Er, he told me to?"  
"There is nothing in your job description about," she gesticulates. "The stroking." Merlin blushes.  
"There was no stroking," he says hotly. The maid takes the scarf out of his hand and sniffs it.  
"The pleasant combination of les peche blanc and goût d'Arthur." She pulls a face. "Maybe not goût. Sounds like a foot infection. Essence d'Arthur?" She wanders away mumbling to herself. Merlin waits until he thinks she's out of sight, before holding the scarf up to his nose.  
He forgets, of course, that Gwen can see backwards with her shiny copper pans.

* * *

Short, but there's only so much one can do with turtle doves. I can't think of a subtle way of asking for reviews so I shan't bother. Be good to fellow mankind instead.


	3. Chapter 3

I think something I have been meaning to put in was that everyone's totally OOC, but I think you've probably noticed by now. Cheers to all you lovely reviewers. You make my groggy mornings when I run out of jam lovely and orange tinted.

27th December.  
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,  
Three french hens.

_'Tis__ beauty truly __blent__, whose red and white  
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:  
Lady, you are the __cruell'st__ she alive  
If you will lead these graces to the grave  
And leave the world no copy.  
_**Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene 5.**

"I have hens."  
"Crucified Christ," Arthur growls. "Will you not leave me alone? I care very little for your plans to turn Camelot self-sufficient."  
"Sourpuss," Morgana smiles, seating herself on the edge of his covers. "I'm keeping them indoors because of the weather. Meet Katerina, Elinor and Bianca. I think they've taken quite a shine to you."  
"Get them off my bed. Where's Merlin?"  
"Oh," she sighs. "I expect he's out in the snow."  
"The snow?"  
"Mm," she says, picking up one of the hens. "I've let Gwen get a head up on those knights. Never did like that Sir Muchin, so he's in for it this morning."  
"You let Gwen get a head start and didn't tell me?" Arthur yells, crashing through his bedroom looking for clothes.  
"Modest and decorum thrown out the window for the cause of what, snow?"  
"This is about so much more than snow, and you know that," the prince shouts.  
"Alright, alright."  
"Have you seen my gloves?"  
"Your gloves don't do anything for your hands. Aesthetically, obviously. You wouldn't be wearing them if they just kept your hands cold."  
"I wasn't asking for an opinion, I was asking whether you'd seen them," he says shortly.  
"No. No I haven't. I have a pair if you want them," she says, fishing a pair of little woollen gloves out of a pocket. Ignoring the blatant lack of absorbency, Arthur snatches them and races out the room. He's got some honour to uphold.

There's a tradition Gwen has to explain to Merlin which, to the warlock's mind, sounds like the best one he's heard in a while.  
"We get together, the servants, and basically have a massive icy fight with the knights."  
"Surely you out-number the knights?"  
"We haven't been trained to main since birth and our average age is about twelve so really, we're the ones at the disadvantage. Yo, Gregs!" She hails a member of the kitchen staff. "Is our crack team ready?"  
"Rosie's twisted her ankle but we're all here. Four cooks, three stable hands, you, me, Merlin and eight cleaners. That makes, what, eighteen."  
"One for two knights," Merlin points out.  
"That's where our beautiful Plan B comes in," Gwen beams. "Are they in place?"  
"Knights at twelve 'o' clock," Gregs says.  
"There's nothing like the sight of thirty six odd knights striding towards you to cheer you up of a morning," Gwen says.  
"Together, as a collective entity, we've had them all," he says proudly. Gwen cackles lustily.  
"Come on boys," she says, tugging at Merlin's arm. "We're going to show them what the proles can do."  
Though he'd never admit it, least of all to Gwen, Merlin's not overtly sure what a prole is. Also, he thinks they should be armed with snow and that, had he known that he's be throwing cold things, he'd have brought gloves.  
"What took you so long, Arthur?" she beams.  
"Same rules as last year," the prince declares. "When you want to surrender, just let us know."  
"Same applies to you," Gregs says. "And no fighting dirty."  
"Says Queenie!"  
"Let's leave the derogatory comments until later, Percivil," she tells him icily. "What's our signal?"  
"Morgana will drop a handkerchief from that tower. When it hits the floor, we commence."  
"Very noble," she says, grinning. "Lighten up, princey. It doesn't matter that much if you lose."  
But of course it does. Everyone on the field knows that. It's a matter of pride, and Camelot takes matters of pride very seriously.  
"Morgana is in position," Gregs says as both side retreat to their lines.  
"Bring it." Gwen glances over at Merlin and smiles. "Just run around a bit. You're still doing your bit. Snowballs ready?" she asks.  
"Ready."  
"Plan B ready?"  
"As far as I can tell." The eighteen servants stand and watch as the Lady Morgana leans over the tower with a scrap of white fabric and lets it drop. It dances in the wind like the ghost of a long dead leaf. "Three," Gregs says quietly, "two."  
"One!"  
Gwen flings a snowball in the direction of the knights. It hits Sir Percivil square in the chest.  
"Nice shot," Merlin says meekly.  
"Cheers." The knights start their charge, running towards the servants who hold their ground. "Wait, wait," Gwen says, taking the warlock's arm in an iron grip. "Wait. Now! Signal!"  
Gregs turns and waves furiously in the direction of the stables.  
"What's he doing?" Arthur asks himself.  
Out from behind piles of straw and horse crap emerges one of the most terrifying sights ever to grace the wall of Camelot. It's like the cast Lord of the Flies has suddenly graced the walls of the castle, as fifty children smothered in camouflage paint appear from behind walls and horse, and race towards the knights.  
"Are they allowed to do this?" Sir Bors asks quietly.  
"Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough!" Coming from the lips of Guinevere, that wouldn't sound so threatening. Coming from the lips of twelve-year-old Gretel, it sounds blood-curdling.  
"You bitch!" Arthur shouts, throwing snow right at Gwen, who just cackles at him.  
"Homicidal children, smothered in mud? Where's your courage?" The prince is promptly floored by seven children under the age of ten who set about rubbing snow into his hair. "Best of luck sweetheart," she shouts, running away to fight Bors, who seems to have some resilience to infants.  
"What do I do now?" Merlin shouts at her.  
"Make snowballs!" she tells him. "And follow me. An education in the art of the snow fight is called for, I think." She scoops a handful of snow into one hand and pats it down. "One, get your weapon. Two," she nods at Bors, "choose a target. Three-" Merlin pulls her down, and a hail of snowballs fly over their heads. "Good lad," she tells him, slapping him on the back.  
"It's what I'm here for."  
"Gretel! Leave the poor man alone! Merlin, get her off him." She points to where the twelve-year-old has a knight in a headlock and is pushing snow up his nose.  
"Er, Gretel," the warlock says. "Please stop it."  
"Don't wanna."  
No where in my job description, he thinks, did it say that I'd be forced to defend knights from angry twelve-year-olds. Merlin thought he was employed to work as a dogsbody, not as a failed child minder.  
"I'll give you cake if you get off him," he promises.  
"What sort of cake?" she asks.  
"Any sort of cake you like." He ducks to avoid flying snow. "I promise. Just get off that man."  
"Alright," Gretel says sweetly, climbing out of the snow and offering Merlin a damp mitten. He looks around to see Gwen engaged in some fierce, angry fighting with nameless knights. His presence won't be missed.  
"Do you want to go to the kitchen?" he asks.  
"I'm bored now," she says, shrugging. "Will there be cake?"  
"Immense amounts of cake. If there isn't enough cake, I will make you cake. By hand." He leads her off the field and into the stables. He is about to take her down to the kitchens and officially retire from the fighting in favour of hot chocolate and fire, when someone stops them.  
"Hey Merlin," a smug voice says. "Where'd you think you're going?"  
"I could take you," Gretel says, giving the crown prince an overtly dirty look.  
"Gretel, why don't you head down to the kitchen?" Merlin says. "I don't think Prince Arthur's up to fighting scary girls."  
"There better be cake or I'm going to find you," she says pointedly, disappearing down a staircase.  
"She's going to hurt you if you're wrong," Arthur says, raising a snowball at him.  
"Nice mittens!" Merlin yells. The prince glances at his hands, distracted for just long enough for the warlock to get a head start with the running.  
Camelot was not designed to aid those in need of a hasty getaway on a frozen morning. Its flagged courtyards are death traps, with hidden dips filled with ice, and black ice at that.  
"For the honour of the knights of Camelot," Arthur yells, "I'm going to kill you." Round a corner, Merlin almost takes out Morgana and her growing collection of birds.  
"Unleash the hens!" he tells her.  
"What?" she laughs.  
"Just do it!" She drops the birds to the floor. They scatter in confusion and as Arthur appears around the corner, they act as an incredibly effective method of tripping the royal up.  
"That was elegant," Morgana says, sweeping the birds back up.  
"Shut up. Which way did he go?"  
"Which way did who go?"  
"He went this way!" Arthur shouts to himself, dashing up a flight of steps, almost forgetting where they lead, right up until the moment he sees sunlight and feels a cold fist of snow hit him square in the jaw.  
"Hah!"  
"You're going down, Merlin!" The warlock backs himself into an alcove in the wall, in readiness to start a stalemate when there's a cheer from the field. He steps out and peers over, in time to see Gwen being held aloft by cheering throngs of servants. She spots him, high above in amongst the crenelations and waves. "Gotcha."  
The prince floors him, and Merlin finds himself flat on his back, shielding his face with his arms.  
"Git!" he shouts as Arthur wrestles to keep him still on the frozen stone. "It's over. We won."  
"Don't care. This is personal." He squirms violently but to no avail.  
"I'll set Gretel on you!" There's the sound of gloved hands sweeping across snow. "Bitch!" He starts to flail again. In answer to this, Arthur grabs a handful of snow and shoves it down Merlin's tunic. "I hate you and I'm going to hurt you."  
"Are you now?" The warlock, though no knight, has some pretty sweet skills built from pub brawls with Gwen, Camelot's finest street fighter. He's got deadly elbows, and the prince finds out as he is knocked sideways and smashed into the crenelations. "Wow!" he laughs, oblivious to the fact that Merlin is both sitting on his chest, and frantically scooping up snow. "Where'd you learn that?"  
"The Guinevere and Gregory school of brawling," he says, narrowly avoiding breaking the prince's nose with his elbow and pushing a handful of snow into his top.  
"Wanker! That's freezing!"  
"I know! You did it to me!" Arthur grabs a handful of snow and shoves it into Merlin's hair.  
"Powdered!" he shouts triumphantly.  
"Git!"  
The two of them continue fighting in almost perfect snow until they are bodily separated by Gwen, who later recounts the tale to Morgana, using words like 'ravishing,' 'growling' and 'fisting.'  
Luckily, Morgana was born with a sense of the rational, but unfortunately for the two lads, she wasn't born without a sense of romance. For this reason, on December 27th, Morgana join Gwen and Greg's Conspiracy To Bring Love To Camelot.  
Consequences, causalities and egotistical noblewomen be damned.

* * *

  
Yay, back to writing longer chapters. On account of my computer being contraband tomorrow (damn this family togetherness) I wish you goodwill, peace and love to all you lovely people, with love from Cosmia, Augustus and Augustus' soon-to-be lady friend Livia (_not that there'll be any romance. Gussy's the biggest queen I know_).


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter sees the entrance of that long neglected character we all adore and love, Gaius and my appalling attempt at writing kissing scenes. Yes, that's right. There's kissing, in the very mildest of forms. I said this wouldn't be up but I have a sleepy family and a box of mint truffles, so here it is. Much, much love to all you who reviewed.

28th December.  
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.  
Four calling birds.

_This fellow's wise enough to play the fool,  
__And to do that well craves a kind of wit.  
_**Twelfth Night, Act 3, Scene 1. **

Arthur is beginning to contemplate soundproofing his room. There is only so much noise and disturbed sleep a man can stand before he goes insane and turns out like Uther. Was this how magic got itself banned? he wonders. Was it all down to too much noise and a sleep deprived king?  
"Milady says to say that she's dreadfully sorry about the noise."  
"Guinevere," Arthur says crossly. "Will you stop just bursting into my rooms, stating the obvious and then leaving?"  
"Alright," she shrugs, producing a slice of toast. "I'll stay."  
"It's it a big early to start surducing?"  
"I'm not interesting in the velvet sheathed rod that proclaims you male, Pendragon," Gwen says.  
"I'm going to lock that door tonight."  
"You'll miss my morning chat. I'm an aimable companion and it's not like you've got lovely Emmie to wake you up."  
"Emmie?" Arthur mentally lists all his bedroom companions. He can't remember an Emmie.  
"Merlin. Emmie."  
"Emmie's a girl's name."  
"Well, he's got lovely slightly effeminate fingers. My real reason for coming here is to ask whether you want any breakfast before the chase."  
"The answer is yes."  
"Bloody shame. I've eaten it." Arthur regards her incrudulously.  
"Any other twelve days of the year and I could have you locked up for that," he tells her.  
"I know," she smiles. "We relish what freedom we're given. I save you the good stuff though." She waves at the selection of meats on the plate she has deposited on his table. "Have you seen Gaius recently?"  
"It's Christmas. You know where Gaius'll be."

Sadly, Gwen does know. She picked the short straw out of the serving staff and, leaving Morgana with the calling birds that have been keeping her up since dawn, she pays a visit to the physician.  
"Gaius?" she calls through the door. "Jesus Christ, this place hasn't been cleaned in over a week! It's like a bachor's hovel."  
"That's right, you bastards," she hears someone slur. "Run away."  
"Gaius!" she shouts, hands on hips. The physician growls and recoils from the light and the angry maid. "What have we said about throwing things at carol singers?"  
"They deserve it."  
"No they don't. No one deserves to be taken out by a smashed old man with a grudge against anyone being happy."  
"What'd want?" Gaius asks, pulling out a bottle. Gwen puts this incoherance down to being intoxicated.  
"No throwing!"  
"Why would I want to throw this one? It's full. Drink?" Gwen debates the morals of this issue. Though it's a bad idea to give the man more alcohol, it's probably more dangerous to try and stop him.  
"Make mine a double," she says kindly. "You remember what day it is today?" she asks.  
"Are we still in December?"  
"Yes."  
"Then yes, sort of."  
"Gaius," she says. "It's the day of the mistletoe hunt."  
"No."  
"Yes."  
"Is that even still bloody going?" he grumbles. "Alright. Do as you wish. You can rifle through Merlin's room, but no going through my stuff." Gwen is immediately suspicious. There's been no shouting and no bottle smashing, for one. Gaius is up to something.  
"What are you doing?" she asks, naturally rather suspicious. Gaius hates the mistletoe race. He hates the idea of people going through his things, and he's also convinced people will try and steal his things, no matter how many times Gwen or Merlin tell him that no one cares to steal books on the basic anatomy of fir trees.  
"Drinking."  
"Don't lie to me, medicine man. I know you." There's an omnious thud from behind a bookcase and Gwen stands up. "What's this?" she mutters.  
"Nothing."  
"Don't nothing me either." She gives the bookcase a push and it slides to the side to revel the slightly hunched form of Uther Pendragon. "What in the name of God are you doing here?" she snaps. "Milord."  
"I'm the king. I can do what I want, and I don't have to explain myself to maidservants."  
Oh good, she thinks. He's pissed too. At least he can't have me beheaded.  
"You should be in Mercia," she says.  
"Can't bloody stand it. Bloody royals with their stupid food and moaning wives. The king, he's not so bad, but that queen! She's so bloody annoying! So this year, I told them I had a stomach bug and that I had to stay at home, and I came back to stay with Gaius."  
"What happens," Gwen asks, "when the good people of Mercia arrive and Arthur knows nothing of your supposed stomach bug?" The king shrugs.  
"Do us a favour and tell him? He's not going to do anything about it."  
"Fuck it," Gwen says, "and do it yourself."  
"See?" Uther says sadly. "This is why I hate Christmas. I get lip for serving girls."

Gwen has better things to do with her time, such as explain the rules of the mistletoe race to Merlin.  
"Bascially," she says, "there's this crown of mistletoe, and whoever finds it gets to be mistletoe king or queen for a day. They wear the crown and anyone who crosses their path has to kiss them. It's great fun." It doesn't sound great fun to Merlin though. He's got bruises forming nicely all over him from the last Camelot Christmas tradition he got involved in.  
"If it's alright with you, I think I'll stay out of this one," he says.  
"You sure? Don't like the idea of being molested by kitchen staff?"  
"No."  
"In which case, m'love, I will see you later."  
"Are you working at the feast?" he asks.  
"Of course. Usually hate Christmas nobles but this lot I can bear. They know how to party. You have to wear that glorious hat but we get to feast on lasange in between shifts." She beams at him and races away.

In an attempt to hide from the mistletoe hunters, Merlin seeks solace in the stables. Arthur might have mentioned something about horse in the past week. There's nothing else to do in the castle, and it's also the last place anyone would think of looking for that stupid crown.  
"Come on, stupid nag," he mutters in the general direction of the horse. "Eat something." The horse gives him a knowing look. "Stop it. I get those eyes enough from people as it is, I don't need to start-" He stops. There's something smooth and distinctly un-straw like in the manger. Underneath the food, it all its glory, is the crown of mistletoe. Merlin holds it aloft, in awe of the green.  
"Merlin!" someone behind him says gleefully.  
"Shit!" He tries to hide it back in the food but caws and cooesof various species of bird hail the entrance of Morgana.  
"You're the mistletoe king!"  
"No!" he says panicing. "Have it, take it. I don't want it!"  
"S'bad luck to take the crown from the mistletoe king. Here." She places the crown on his head before taking his hand in hers and leading him away.  
The hall is already full of people, failed in their hunt, waiting to see who their king or queen for the day.  
"Please be upstanding," Morgana smiles, "for your King Merlin." There's a collective applause, and servants start to throng around with barely contained curosity. "I'm afraid I'm going to steal the honour of the first kiss," she says. Cupping his face in her hands, she kisses him lightly on the lips like, Merlin thinks, a princess might kiss a frog.  
"Merls!" On the other side of the hall, Gwen executes a perfect table vault, races over and jumps onto the unready warlock, who staggers backwards into a table in attempt to support the gracious maiden who is latched onto his face. "Bah!" she says, sliding off him, smacking her lips lechorously and leaning into Gregs and a collective body of cooks. "He's good."  
With a now established reputation as an execellant kisser, Merlin spends the rest of his morning being chased by kitchen girls and hormonal palace accountants.  
He promises himself that he will do everything in his power to stay resistable for as long as possible.

"We need more wine for Lord Shingleberry!"  
"How much wine has that man drunk?" Gwen asks, mouth full of mincemeat.  
"More than you."  
"Shut up, Emmie," she grins. "I can hold my drink, unlike you and your bloody stupid hat."  
"Don't mock the hat. It's got power."  
"Is anyone going to take this wine up?" Gregs calls from the other side of the kitchen.  
"I am far too pretty, too tired and too busy eating to take anything," Gwen says, waving away her duties. "Merlin can do it."  
"I don't want to. I might get molested by Rosie Porter again." She cackles at him.  
"It's good for you, learning how to deal with drunken lechorous women."  
"I've been accused of sleeping with you again," Merlin says, bemused.  
"Tell them you're untouched. One of two males neither Gregs or I have gotton our hands on yet. Be proud of that and hold onto your virtue. You'll win through."  
"Who's the other one? I might decide to start a club."  
"Go," Gregs says, pushing the jug into his hands.  
Grumbling mildly to himself, the warlock staggers up to the great hall, being caught twice by girls on the stairs wanting kisses.  
"Where are you going?"  
Shit, Merlin thinks. Anyone but her.  
"Gretel," he says, trying to think of some way he could hold off the girl with little more than a jug of alcohol and some feathers. "I'm a servant. This is what we do."  
"I'm a servant too."  
"Yes. Yes you are."  
"Can I carry the jug?" she asks sweetly. Merlin weighs up his options. If she does something bad with the wine, it'll be his fault and he'll face the wrath of Arthur, possibly Uther. Should he refuse, he'll face the wrath of Gretel. Really, there's no competition.  
"Here," he says. "Be careful with it." Omnious words from the warlock. Gretel reaches the lord she's been directed to, leans over to pour the wine into his cup, loses her balance and spills wine all over three nobles. Luckily, two of them are inebreated enough not to notice. However, one of them is Arthur, and he isn't best pleased.  
"What have you done?" he asks crossly.  
"Wasn't my fault. Was Merlin's fault." She nods in the direction of the panic-striken young man in a corner.  
"Merlin!" Arthur slurs. "I am going to have words with you. Morgana, save my seat."  
The completely sober Morgana sighs.  
"No one's going to steal your seat. Why don't I have have a word with Merlin? I'm more likely to be comprended." It's too late though. Arthur is up out of his seat, dragging Merlin from the room. "Hey, Gretel," she says quietly. "Have a lollipop."  
"Thank you milady. Any time."

For a moment, when Merlin spots that the prince has brought him up to the castle walls, he thinks he's going to be thrown over the walls in a rash attempt at revenge of behalf of the stained nobles.  
"I'm very sorry about that," he says quickly. "I mean, Gretel's quite hard to refuse. You know that. You must have bruises too."  
"I don't care about wine." Arthur leans over the side of the battlements and takes a deep breathe.  
Bejesus, Merlin thinks, he's drunk. He's going to fall off and die.  
"Why don't you back from there?" he says, offering the prince an arm to guide him away.  
"I like it here." Arthr then proceeds to climb onto the crenelations. "I'm king of the world," he shouts. "Look Merlin! I can see the whole of Camelot. It's all mine. All mine."  
"Very nice, sir," Merlin say nervously. "Come down now."  
"I could fall from up here," he says mildly.  
"_Séidte_." With a well place whisper, the prince is pushed off the crenelations and back onto the castle walls in a heap. "Are you alright?" the warlock asks cheerfully.  
There's a silence between them, with the wind and the rustle of the trees below filling the silence.  
"Merlin. Merlin, Merlin, Merlin."  
"Yes?" Repeatition makes the warlock nervous.  
"Where's your crown?"  
"Er.." In the split second before 'it' happens, Merlin genuninely believes that Arthur's got it into his head that he wants his throne, and has brought him up here to kill him and dispose of his body.  
And then Arthur kisses him. In hindsight, it doesn't seem like a proper kiss; it's all teeth and tongues and Arthur can't stand up properly, but that isn't important. For a moment, Merlin panics. He's never been taught the court ettiquette regarding the snogging of princes.  
But there's something in the way Arthur just tastes slightly of wine and of something Merlin will later idenify as anger.  
"No, bad Arthur," he says, pulling away.  
"You're very pretty."  
"No I'm not. You're very drunk. You're not supposed to like this."  
"But you do."  
Arthur takes advantage of Merlin's shock to seize him by the front of his tunic and kiss him again. This time, the warlock doesn't resist. He brings one hand up to tangle itself in the prince's hair, while he drapes the other over the prince's neck. Arthur has both arm wrapped firmly around his waist, bringing him closer. Fueled by a combination of vaguely drunken aggression and adrenelin on Merlin's part, they fight for dominance in the kiss. Merlin thinks Arthur smells like rust and sweat and base masculinity and Arthur doesn't care what Merlin smells like.  
"Shit," the prince mutters, pushing away, staggering backwards and vomitting in a corner of the battlements. Merlin just stands like a deer in headlights, completely dazed and slightly light-headed. "Emmie, Emmie, Emmie. Nice hands..."  
Arthur passes out. For what feels like hours, the warlock just watches him in the moonlight, feeling that maybe he should move him so he doesn't die of hypothermia, but not quite having the gall to touch him yet. The rise and fall of his chest is quite hypnotic, as are the little movements he makes in his sleep.  
There are, surely, worse things one could do with one's nighttime.

* * *

  
Apologises for my appalling lack of gaelic knowledge and have a proper merry Christmas.


	5. Chapter 5

Here's another chapter for your lovely eye. I'm not sure if I spell checked the last chapter, so sorry if I didn't. I can't spell. It's not even dyslexia, it's just me being a bit crap with words.

29th December.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,  
Five gold rings.

_What is love? 'tis not hereafter;  
__Present mirth hath present laughter;  
__What's to come is still unsure:  
__In delay there lies no plenty;  
__Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,  
__Youth's a stuff will not endure.  
_**Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 3.**

For once, it is Guinevere whose sleep is disturbed.  
"Gwen!"  
"Piss off."  
"Gwen, this is an emergency."  
In her hurry to escape the noise, the handmaiden whacks her head on the bottom on the table under which she is sleeping.  
"Whoever you are, you're a bastard and I hate you."  
"Morgana's been proposed to."  
"Shit, shit, shit."  
Gwen is right to cuss so much. Morgana paces up and down, awaiting either Arthur or her trusty maid.  
"What to do, what to do," she mutters.  
"Guinevere Smith, angry, hungover and at your service," Merlin says, pushing her through the door.  
"Merlin, stay," Morgana says dramatically. "Actually, could you go get Arthur?"  
"Er..."  
Morgana, in a moment of crazed self obsession, completely fails to notice the fact that Merlin pulls an odd face at this request and tries to think of some way of escaping. Gwen spots this.  
"We'll get him together, give us two minutes." She hauls the warlock outside, pushes him into an alcove and points a finger in his face. "What happened last night?"  
"You have terrifying eyes."  
"Tell me."  
"He kissed me." Gwen's jaw drops slightly, her eyes glaze over and she falls into Merlin, who catches her.  
"Sorry, I think I knocked my head on something last night," she says, leaning on him. "Did he get his hand down your pants?"  
"No!"  
"Good, good. You'll be fine."  
"Do you have no concept of discomfort?" he snaps at her. "Or embarrassment?"  
"I'm still a bit squiffed. I can't feel anything." She pulls herself up on his hair. "Alright, Samson, I'll go. Get me some wonderbread and I'll wake Arthur." She's talking crap again, he thinks, but leaves her to it. "Go get Uther," she tells him.  
"Uther's in Mercia."  
"No he's not, he's in Gaius' cupboard. I saw him yesterday. You can't fool me, Emmie my love, I know you know."

Only Merlin doesn't know. Gaius knows how easy it is to deceive the boy, and in the interests of both their safeties, he has omitted to mention to Merlin that they have a royal living in their broom cupboard and drinking most of their beer. When the warlock confronts Gaius about this, the physician denies it up until the point where Uther walks out of his hiding place to get a bottle of gin. Merlin returns to Morgana and informs her of this discovery, wereupon Morgana raises hell. A newly dressed Arthur is dragged down to the physician's chambers, where he is ordered to disapprove of his father's actions. Really, Arthur thinks, it's quite ingenious, but he doesn't say that.  
"I am going to write a letter!" Morgana shouts. "I am going to invite the Mercian royal family to stay with us over New Year. I am going to insist they bring a collection of suitable maidens because Prince Arthur is looking for a bride, and I am going to tell them to bring their Prince Hebes so I can see the man who has proposed to marry me."  
"Someone's proposed?" Arthur says hoarsely.  
"Yes. And if he's nice, I shall accept."  
"He hasn't asked me for permission yet though," Uther says, waving an empty bottle at her.  
"I expect he planned on doing that when you arrived. I'm not going to wait on your complicity any longer. I am going to insist on a visit." She storms away in a cloud of perfume, leaving behind a moody crowd.  
"Aha, Hebes," the prince chuckles. "Sounds like a sexually transmitted disease."  
"I was thinking that," Gaius says.  
"Me too."  
"Well," Gwen sighs, sensing that there is only one way to restore some delicacy and decorum into the occasion. "I don't suppose anyone wants any tea?"

Washing up after feasts is usually a job for young members of the kitchen staff, but on account of sudden diminishing of responsibility, it is oddly Merlin who is doing the washing while Gwen sits on a worktop and draws on a wall.  
"I could have been an artist," she tells him. "It's just that no one wants a painting done by a blacksmith's girl."  
"It's got nothing to do with the fact you can only draw birds and flowers?"  
"Cheeky sod," she laughs. "Want some cake? I've just found some."  
"Shouldn't we leave it? In case it's like Arthur's special cake, or something like that."  
"You know as well as I do that cake in the kitchens is communal property. It's lemon too. Open your mouth." She places a piece of cake on his tongue.  
"S'good."  
"I know. Gretel made it." She picks the icing off the top and eats it. "So what was he like?"  
"Who?"  
"You know who, Merl."  
"He was very, very drunk." She chuckles and pulls her legs up under her. "And he smelt nice."  
"You're right there." Merlin smiles.  
"I usually am."  
"Oi, you two." They turn to look up the steps. There stands Prince Arthur, looking tired and squinty. "Have you got any eggs?"  
"I know what you need," Gwen says. "I'll make you something to make the pain of light go away." She roots through baskets and boxes, keeping a running conversation as she goes. "You need egg, and we have egg, but you also need oregano but we haven't got any of them but I think chives should do. And then I think a cinnamon stick and tomato. Lots of tomato. And some wine."  
"No more wine."  
"Yes to wine," she tells him firmly. "Hair of the dog. Never fails." She hands him a brown concoction. "Drink," she says briskly. Arthur just looks at her. "Come here." With one swift movement, she manages to pin him to the table, pinch his nose and pour the liquid down his throat. "You've got to learn to defend yourself from ninjas with hangover cures. We're deadly." He gags, retches and is sick on the kitchen steps.  
"That's twice in twelve hours you've been sick," Merlin says, not lifting his head from the dishes.  
"Where was I sick before?"  
"Over the walls."  
"I don't remember that."  
"Thank God," he mutters.  
"Why?"  
"Oh," the warlock says vaguely. "Because it was nasty and because you passed out afterwards. I had to drag you back to your room afterwards. That's why you have that bruise on your face. That's where you got stuck and I pulled you and you went straight into a wall."  
"Oh Christ," the prince groans. "Next you'll say I kissed Gregs."  
"Not quite," Merlin mutters. "I'm going to get a mop." He wanders away in search of cleaning equipment.  
"You don't appreciate the things Emmie does for you," Gwen says as Arthur gargles and spits water into a bucket.  
"He's a servant. He's paid to do those things."  
"It's obviously not enough!"  
"Your opinion is discounted in the debate of pay for servants. You're a servant."  
"And you're a tosser, so your opinion in null and bloody void as well."  
"Guinevere, are you going to spend this week just swearing at me? Because it's vulgar and doesn't make you look pretty." She stamps on his toe, hard.  
"Listen to me, princey. I know things about you."  
"If I had a penny for every time someone has sidled up to me and said that, I'd be a rich man Guinevere."  
"I'm not sidling, Arthur," she says. "I've gotten quite good at the unsubtle approach. I'm a bit of an expert. And I'm the handmaiden of a Lady. A proper Lady. I find things out." There's a clatter as Merlin  
returns. Arthur turns to leave.  
"Don't!" the warlock shouts. "There's vomit there." The prince moves around the sick and departs.  
"That was caring," Gwen says.  
"If he stands in vomit, it's me that has to clean it up," Merlin says gloomily. "Trust me when I say I'm being incredibly self centred."  
"Don't worry sweetheart," she says cheerfully, fearing that his self esteem might be batter a bit by having help re-sanitise parts of Camelot. "I think you're wonderful."  
"Not wonderful enough that you'd clean up the sick for me though," he says dryly.  
"No mate." She resumes her position by the wall, cake in one hand, pencil in the other. "I don't love you that much."

Morgana feels that some days, it would be easier for her to get some attention by becoming a centaur. She could have found someone to be betrothed to. She could have found a way of escaping Uther and his crazed homicidal schemes.  
However, it appears that Camelot got very drunk last night, and so cares little for the cares of others.  
"I could be making the biggest step of my life today!" she tells her birds as she sits and swaps the rings on her hands from finger to finger. "He could be rich and handsome and kingly. He could be hideously ugly and very angry. The excitement is quite something, she thinks.  
Such is the mind set of propose-es. They completely fail to realise that most of the world either doesn't care for their marriage or are so embittered by past instances of love that they find themselves cross at the whole process of marriage.  
Morgana's problem, therefore, is that Camelot, though externally just a bit cold and fighty, it's a hotbed of angst and heartbreak.  
Not that we ever saw that one coming.

* * *

Not excellent. Will sleep, will get better. Much love to all you fine people who're reading.


	6. Chapter 6

Yes, she finally gets around to posting Chapter 6. Sorry. I ran away to London and then family incidents happened and blah blah blah. Here it is. This might have to continue slightly into January. I'll make it as un-Christmassy as possible, promise. It's just shouting and alcohol really. I'm off to watch Lark Rise to Candleford. Don't let them tell you it's 'oop North,' Lark Rise is in Northamptonshire. Enjoy.  
Unedited version apologises? See below!

30th December.  
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,  
Six geese a'laying.

_O! what a deal of scorn looks beautiful  
In the contempt and anger of his lip._  
**Twelfth Night, Act 3, Scene 1.**

Arthur doesn't care if these gift are great romantic gestures, this time, this Prince Herpes or whatever his name is, has gone too far.  
"I fucking hate geese," he tells Merlin.  
"Well, in all fairness, they're not for you. They're Morgana's." So the prince takes up his feud up with the Lady herself.  
"Why don't you like them?" she asks, bemused.  
"I just don't."  
"Come on. There must be some sort of embarrassing incident in your childhood that I've forgotten about that's the cause of this. It's like your irrational hatred of asparagus."  
"That's not an irrational hatred! Asparagus is the food of evil! Gwen." The maid stops in the middle of the room and looks suspicious.  
"Yes, milord?"  
"What do you think of when I say geese."  
"What sort of geese?" she asks.  
"Geese with eggs."  
"Angry broody monsters," she says simply. "With ugly children. Like the most dangerous of mothers."  
"See? She agrees with me," he says.  
"You think that?" Gwen says. "In which case, I must be wrong and I retract my previous statement completely." She sets about cleaning windows.  
"I'm not sure how much more of this say-what-you-like policy I can stand."  
"If you want my charms, pay me more!"  
"They'll unionise any day now," Morgana sighs, running her fingers through her hair as Arthur just proceeds to pull faces at her maid's back. "Don't do that. It's inelegant and unbecoming of you."  
"Oh, I apologise," he says sarcastically.  
"You're going to think me terribly cruel," Gwen says absent mindedly, "but the funniest thing ever is occurring outside your window."  
"Is it even funnier-"  
"Yes."

Morgana is the second most caring member of the court of Camelot. This can be put down to the fact that she doesn't drink, doesn't care for power and doesn't sleep much. It's a fact universally acknowledged that insomniacs are kinder people.  
"I think we should help him," she says as the three of them stand and watch Merlin fighting off six angry geese with a basket. A small crowd is beginning to gather.  
"I think we'd be letting Camelot down if we did that," Gwen says.  
"Arthur. Do something." There's a pregnant pause as nothing happens, and the Lady repeats her point.  
"Alright," the prince says. "Give me one of your shoes." Morgana looks at Gwen.  
"I am not losing any more of my footwear for the sake of the good males of Camelot," the maid says sternly. "You have lots of shoes. Give him one of yours." Morgana sighs, and grabs Gwen's shoulder as she makes to remove on of her little shoes.  
"I don't see-" Arthur, silly, irrational young man that his is, takes her shoe and throws it headlong at the geese. Said geese, temporarily confused by this missile from the air, allow Merlin to escape.  
"There's a flaw with this plan," Gwen says. "A really big one." The geese spot Arthur and start their aggressive waddle in his direction. "Morgs, move."  
"Why?"  
"Do you have supreme power over beasts and bees and birds?"  
"Why no," Morgana says airily. "But-"  
"Does Arthur?"  
"No-"  
"Get out the bloody way then." She is pulled through a door and up a staircase with the briskness that comes from being pulled away by an agressive young woman as the geese descend on the prince like an angry swarm of bees.  
"Shouldn't we help Arthur?"  
"No."  
"You're heartless, Guinevere. Heartless."  
"No," she says. "I am in full possession of a heart. I just choose not get emotive over princes."

Arthur has a secret. He has kept it from most of Camelot because, should it get out, he fears he will be considered unmanly and a bit limp wristed. You see, the future king of Camelot really, really likes tea. He blames it all on Morgana. If she hadn't made it fashionable, no one in the castle would have even started drinking it, he would never had tried any of it, and he'd be fine. It is a terribly irresponsible thing for a prince to do; getting an adiction is a weakness and weakness cannot be tolerated.  
You see, the Camelot monarchy has been built up using the same principles used by Darleks. Such principles are probably more effective if one is a metal box, trying to take over the world in a futile manner, or if you're Uther, but this idea just doesn't work with Arthur. We all believe he has this lovely sensitive side! Anyway, we find him later that night, escaped from the rampaging geese, but suffering from cravings and confined to bed while the servants prepare the rest of the castle for New Year's Eve.  
It is a tradition in Camelot that the servants organise the New Year's Eve party. This stems from the theory that the servants know how to party better than the royals because the servants have more oppotunity to shout and get drunk. This is a lie; the royals party just as much, they just aren't threatened with redundancy if they're caught.  
So it goes. The royals are not allowed out of their rooms while the decorations are being erected, as per tradition. Arthur feels distinctly uncomfortable about this. He dislikes not knowing what's going on. He thinks Uther would feel the same way if he wasn't so rat-arsed.

"You're crap at this!"  
"I know."  
"It's all in the wrong place."  
"I know!" Merlin has a fear of heights. He's not afraid of others' opinions on his fears and so has told Gwen this but she seems to think the most effective way of helping him with this phobia is to send him up a ladder with various plants and then shout abuse at him from down below. "Can I come down yet?"  
"Oh, if you must. I'll do it. Get yourself down here and have a stiff drink." She waves an expensive bottle of wine at him.  
"Isn't that Uther's?" he asks warily, having completed his shaky descent.  
"It might be," she shrugs. "I didn't ask."  
"If he finds out, he might have you killed."  
"He might. He'd have to catch me first. I'd be half way to Monte Carlo before he found out." Merlin just finds himself agreeing with this nonsense. He finds it to be the best way.

By the time the two of them have finished their segment of the castle, the place looks smashing. There are garlands of winter flowers all over the place and the castle smells of proper winter foods, not that fancy posh food. There's illict game birds boiling in the kitchen and root vegetables, both obtained by ill means. There's fruit that shouldn't exist yet. The place has a quixotic feel about it, like it's actually jolly.  
Merlin's quite jolly too. Expensive alcohol is more potent than the cheap stuff he usually has to drink. Ale's all well and good but it's all barley.  
"I think you're rather pretty," he slurs to Gwen.  
"I bet you say that to every girl who gets you hammered."  
"No, no. You're pretty."  
"Don't deceive yourself, Emmie. I'm quite something but I'm a troll compared to the one you love."  
"I'm not in love," he says, confused. "Never, never."  
"Let's put you to bed," Gwen says. Merlin stands, wobbles and lands in her lap. "Nice try sweetheart."  
"Kiss me Guinevere."  
"No."  
"It's Christmas."  
"That's not excuse for you acting like a wench, Merlin. I'll leave you here to catch something nasty."  
"I could have you up against that wall in an instant," he says.  
"No, you couldn't," she says. She spots a figure lurking in the shadows. "Oi!" The figure jumps. "Stealth is a concept you seemed to have failed to grasp, Pendragon." She pushes Merlin off her lap. "Yes, I'm talking to you. Get out the shadows." Arthur steps out of his feeble hiding place sheepishly.  
"I don't see why I have to stay in my chambers," he starts, but Gwen stops him.  
"Take this one up to your rooms and stop him making passes at the female population at large. It's bad for him." The prince looks bemused.  
"Do I get to know who this great love of his is?" he asks. She regards him with a look of surprise.  
"You might not be the sword in the rack, but I'd have thought you'd have worked that one out by now," she says, smiling brightly at him.  
"Must you speak in code Guinevere?"  
"I'm a woman. It's what we do." Arthur scoops the servant up and throws him over his shoulder. "Adieu, princeling. Stay in your room and whatever you do," the grin turns lascivious, "don't damage the bloody teapot."  
And so Gwen spends the rest of her evening recounting events to the wise Morgana, Merlin spends his evening asleep, and Arthur spends his toasting a gender he will never understand with tea leaves.  
So it goes.

* * *

Apologies if you read the unedited version and thought I'd just forgotten how to spell and use lines properly. Here it is in all its glory.


End file.
